


Scar Tissue

by Robin_Fai



Series: This Tangled Briar [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I got distracted, Injury Recovery, M/M, Morse/Jakes if you squint, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Scars, Whump, spoiler free for series 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Morse comes back to Cowley with stitches, scars, and secrets.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Male Character(s)
Series: This Tangled Briar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665553
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> c/w for abusive relationships and injuries received as a result.
> 
> So. I have zero time right now for anything but I was missing writing. Then dear Hekate gifted me a most fine magical realism story and I got working on something to add/reply to it. Then _obviously_ I got distracted part way through that and wrote this. I have no excuses.

Morse traced the stitches that ran down his chest and abdomen. The wound was still healing. The cut livid, bright against his tracing paper skin. It stood out, as though it were still open, gaping and filled with pain. He supposed it was in a way.

At least this scar wasn’t inflicted at the hands of someone he thought cared for him. The other marks had faded now. Bruises that once blanketed his aching frame had sunk inwards. A deep and constant ache. Contusions of the bone and soul. 

Left behind on the surface were the small cuts that littered his body. All at different stages of scarring. A colour chart that marked the history of a love gone wrong. His fault of course. Always his fault.

He hadn’t looked at himself for months. He had taken to hiding from mirrors. The story they would tell him was always too agonising to accept. This was the first time really looking at himself, opening up that book, and he didn’t like what he saw. 

Dressing quickly, he concealed the telltale map of his failure once more. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so the theory went. He can avoid looking, try to forget, but he cannot stop the ache in his bones, the sting of the incision, the agony that fills his every move.

He knew that coming back to Oxford yet again was running away, but he cannot face this. He could never face his problems, and so he runs to and from the city. Maybe his father was right. Joseph said as much. They were probably right. 

It felt strange now, living alone. The spaces of his new flat were small, but filled with so many ghosts. Joseph had never lived in Oxford, had never even been to the city. Their life was elsewhere. Yet he felt as though he had followed him back here. His presence lingering in the suitcases he had yet to unpack.

So much hope had been poured into that love. He had thought the danger to ‘them’ would come from outside, from the people that would ask too many questions and wouldn’t care for the honest answers. Never would he have imagined what was to come, nor that their relationship would be torn apart from the inside.

The final break had begun before they had even truly started. Cutting words mixed with charm. Control and coercion behind a screen of concern and care.

It ended with major surgery and a scar he would never be able to fully hide or forget. 

The force didn’t know. He had called in sick. Again. So they had suspended him. Then the transfer query had come through from Cowley while they debated how to proceed, and they had seen a way to be rid of him.

The first two days back hadn’t been so bad. He was on records for now. Filed away and forgotten in the basement. Thursday and Jakes were caught up with a complicated case. They didn’t have time to notice Morse had returned broken.

He promised himself he wouldn’t get involved with the case. He knew he needed rest. But still he wanted to forget. The lure of getting lost in someone else’s problems, of pretending that he was fine, was intoxicating. He couldn’t help lingering by the boards on the couple of occasions he had call to go up.

On the third day he brought up a set of files as requested to the CID offices. Thursday and Jakes were having a disagreement so they failed to notice how the walk up the stairs had taken so much out of him that he had to lean heavily on Jakes’ desk, his face pale with the strain. 

“I still say it’s a domestic that went too far.” Thursday said with a sigh. It sounded like they’d had this conversation several times already.

“With respect, Sir, I don’t see how beating a woman to death is a ‘domestic’ as you call it. It’s just murder, plain and simple. Besides, it doesn’t seem right for that kind of incident.” Jakes had his hands pushed deep in his pockets and was staring straight at the boards.

“In what way?”

“I...” Jakes slumped slightly and leaned back against the nearest desk. “I don’t know exactly.”

“There are no previous injuries.” Morse found himself speaking before he’d even considered it. “If this was the result of a domestic violence situation then you’d expect it to have escalated over time - certainly to get to this level. There are no historic injuries noted on the post-mortem, nor evident in the photographs of the deceased.”

Jakes was watching him intently, his expression unreadable, and Thursday looked surprised to see him in the room. He didn’t want to be the focus of anyone’s attention right now. He tried to think of a way to quietly escape.

“That’s it. I knew there was something. Trust you to spot it.” Jakes rolled his eyes as though annoyed, but then he unexpectedly smiled at Morse.

“Morse! I keep forgetting you’re back. What are you doing down in records anyhow?” Thursday clapped him on the shoulder and he had to fight to hide the wince of pain.

“It’s the post that was requested.”

“Well, yes, we did need someone in records, but we also requested you back for CID what with Strange moving on and all. You can’t tell me that of the two positions _you_ requested records?”

“It’s fine, Sir.” He laid the requested files on Jakes’ desk and turned to leave.

“Hold up!” Thursday called after him. “We could use your input on this one. I’ll have a word with Bright, get you reallocated.” 

Morse tried to think of some way to avoid the situation he could see coming, but his mind was desperately blank. The pull of getting back to actual detective work was like a screen blocking out all sensible thought. In the end he settled for nodding mutely and slipping out of the room. He leant back on the wall of the corridor and tried to breathe evenly.

“Does he seem… kind of off to you?” He heard Jakes ask.

“He’s just Morse is all. Always been a bit odd hasn’t he.” Thursday laughed.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just...”

“What?”

“Never mind...” 

Morse fled back to the safety and obscurity of the records office.

He felt an odd ambivalence when Bright called him to his office at the end of the day and announced that he had been reassigned. The older man’s hands fidgeted unconsciously with his file as he spoke. He wondered what exactly was written in there about his various sick leaves of the last year, not to mention the broken hand, and fractured ribs. And the suspension of course. 

He didn’t have to wonder for long. Bright read him a lecture about not getting too _involved_ with cases, not _overstepping_ , and _always_ calling for backup. The Superintendent evidently thought he had incurred those injuries by working on cases outside of normal hours and procedure. He decided not to correct him. He wondered if Thursday knew what was in his file. He didn’t ask.

That evening he opened a bottle of whiskey for the first time in almost a year. The strong liquid burned its way down his throat, setting his nerves alight. It was familiar, but it held no comfort now. He put the bottle away and downed the rest of the small serving he had poured himself for want of not wasting it. The liquor sat uncomfortably in his stomach.

Morse wished he had a record to put on. The silence in the flat really was oppressive and he longed for the pleasure or consolation he could find in a good opera. Tomorrow he would look at buying a radio at least. He couldn’t afford records just now, let alone a new record player. As he slept, he dreamed of the shattered pieces of his original collection splintering still smaller and driving into his body. 

He awoke to the sting of stitches pulled too tight by his somnambulist thrashing, and a simultaneous sense of utter loneliness, and terror that he was being watched. Joseph wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Yet in so many ways Morse now realised that he was carrying him around with him wherever he went.

The morning familiarising himself with the case wouldn’t have been too bad if it weren’t for the ache in his chest. Perhaps he ought to have had the stitches looked at professionally before now. Discharge from hospital was a rather hazy memory. _Had they said anything about check-ups? Was he supposed to have them taken out?_

His reverie was disturbed by Thursday asking him to join him and Jakes in the pub for lunch. It scared him how ingrained and automatic his refusal had become. _Joseph didn’t approve of him drinking. Joseph didn’t like it when he went to the pub. Joseph said his colleagues hated him._ Thursday tried to persuade him, which gave him time to reconsider. _Joseph isn’t here, and he doesn’t get a say in my life now._ But the thought of alcohol made him a little queasy, and the thought of explaining that he no longer drank made him even more so. They left without him, a small frown creasing Thursdays forehead, Jakes’ expression as enigmatic as ever.

While they were out it gave him a chance to swallow some painkillers and rest. He hadn’t realised how exhausting pretending to be well would be. 

The case played on his mind more than he would like to admit. The photographs of the victim were vivid even when he closed his eyes. Her injuries were not dissimilar to what he had suffered. The difference was that he had been able to get to a phone and call for an ambulance before passing out. Joseph had left him, much as whoever had done this to their victim, so if he hadn’t been able to make that call then he too might have become nothing more than a collection of photographs on a board. 

Afternoon saw Thursday and Jakes arguing again. The husband in the case they were investigating hadn’t been seen since the morning his wife had been found beaten to death in their living room by a concerned neighbour. Thursday took this as a clear sign he had done it. Jakes was less convinced. Morse thought he had a point.

“I’m just saying - if he did it, why would he vanish so completely?” Jakes took a drag of his cigarette and stared down his superior.

“Well he’s not just going to waltz in here and hand himself in is he?” Thursday threw back.

“No, he wouldn’t, but he’s a bloody clerk, not a spy. How has he been hiding from us so effectively? No sightings. Nothing.”

“Has anyone checked their allotment?” Morse cut in. They both turned to stare at him.

“Allotment? How’d you make that out then?” Thursday looked perplexed. Jakes swore and stubbed out his cigarette.

“There were vegetables in their kitchen, clearly freshly dug and picked, hadn’t been washed yet. There are only flowers in the garden from what I can see in the photos.” He explained.

“There was that one key, like for a padlock, that we couldn’t place.” Jakes was digging through the evidence and pulled out a bag with the keys.

“Which allotments do you think?” Thursday asked.

“Cripley Meadow is closest.”

“Come on then. Best we get over there and check it out.” Thursday went to his office to get his hat and coat. Jakes went on ahead for the car. Morse was grateful for their temporary absence so he could make the awkward moves to get up from his desk and into his coat in peace. 

Jakes drove and Thursday claimed the other front seat. Morse would normally be annoyed to be left in the back, but at least this way he wasn’t the focus of either man’s attention any more. He had come along automatically when really he should have left it to them to check the site.

The allotments were quiet in the cold and drizzle of the mid-afternoon. An old man that was working fertiliser into his plot was the only person in sight. Luckily, he was there most days and so knew most of the folk that had a plot. He pointed them to the far side of the allotments with a description of the shed on the patch they needed.

Morse lagged behind Thursday and Jakes. The walk across the allotments was more exercise than he had done in quite some time. He hated to think how out of shape this injury had left him. His breath came short and pained. 

There was something wrong about the allotment ahead of him. It worried at the back of his mind but wouldn’t come clear. Thursday and Jakes were approaching the shed as he caught up to the edge of the plot. Then it struck him; the shed door was open just a fraction. He moved to call out, but before he had a chance the door was flung open knocking Jakes over and sending Thursday stumbling.

A man in dark clothing ran towards the exit of the allotments. Morse launched himself sideways into his path. The man hadn’t really noticed him before and so was taken by surprise. They struggled briefly, and Morse managed to get a grip on his jacket sleeve, but then the man struck him with his free arm directly on the site of his stitches. 

His vision was filled with a bright light and he felt his knees buckle beneath him. He collapsed to the ground. The earth was cold and wet against his face as he lay there trying to catch his breath. Darkness swum around the edges of his vision and then swallowed him whole.

The next he knew Jakes and Thursday were crouched beside him. Their voices swam in and out of focus like a badly tuned radio.

“…but...didn’t have a weapon...”

“Then what…?”

“Morse? Mor...”

“…not responding...”

“…call…awake? ...Debryn?”

Footsteps left and returned again some time later.

“...blood? ...Morse!”

“We need to see… blood coming from. Get his shirt open.”

That much he understood. He didn’t want them to see. Didn’t want them to know. He made a feeble attempt to stop them, to get up, to prevent his world crumbling any more than it already had. 

“It’s alright Morse… Mor… Morse! Stop!”

The earth was too soft beneath his hands as they tried to push him up and he was falling for what seemed like an age into darkness. Slowly, the light crept back in. He was on his back on the sodden earth. Above him a murder of crows screamed as their black mass swarmed from the trees. Someone with bitterly cold hands was opening his shirt buttons. He hadn’t got any energy left to fight so he closed his eyes again and feigned unconsciousness.

“Christ!” Thursday’s voice was clear and close as he felt the fabric pushed back. Somewhere above him he heard Jakes swear. “Right, it doesn’t look… doesn’t look like it would be… well, let’s just get the bleeding stopped shall we?”

So much pity in that kind voice. He didn’t want to deal with any of this. A hand pressed something down on the site of his stitches. There was a ringing in his ears and it drowned out everything but his own pulse for some time.

“Morse?” DeBryn’s precise tones cut through the static. He opened his eyes. “Back with us? Good. I didn’t realise you were back in Oxford.”

“Transferred. Last week.” His mouth felt like he had eaten some of the cloying mud he had fallen into.

“Hmm. I’d ask if you’ve been keeping well but I think I can see the answer to that already. Can you tell me what your surgery was for?” DeBryn’s voice was full of the usual dry sarcasm, but his expression was one of concern.

“Bleeding.” It hurt to talk with a hand pressed down on the presumably now open stitches so he kept his answer short.

“Yes, I can see you’re bleeding but what-”

“No. For bleeding. Internal.” 

“Ah. Right. Do you know the details? Where you were bleeding exactly?” DeBryn asked. Morse shook his head. “Alright, well, the bleeding has mostly stopped, and it looks like it was from the surface of the site of the incision, but we need to get you to a hospital anyway. You’ll need to be checked over just in case and have those stitches re-done.” DeBryn waved over a couple of paramedics he hadn’t seen before. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of these gentlemen while I attend to the body.”

“Body?”

“Don’t you worry about that for now.” Thursday came back into view as the paramedics carefully helped him up. He looked pale and worried. Morse ducked his head to avoid eye contact.

“But what..?”

“The husband,” Jakes cut in. “Our man that knocked us all over had him stashed in the shed. Looks like he did for the wife too.”

“Did he… Did he get away?” 

“No. You sent him flying when you went down. Gave me just enough time to grab him.” Jakes was talking to him normally, no trace of the pity that Thursday’s voice was laden with. He had never felt more gratitude towards the other man. He nodded his acknowledgement and then let the paramedics lead him away.

He wasn’t in the hospital for too long. Within a couple of hours he had been cleaned up, checked over, his stitches replaced, handed a prescription, and given a lecture on following doctor’s orders when discharged after a life threatening injury. He didn’t want to admit that he had been so out of it last time that he couldn’t remember what they had told him. He now had an appointment for a week’s time for a check up, and in two weeks time to have the stitches out. He was under strict orders to rest. If he insisted on going to work then he was bound to desk duty, nothing more.

He got a taxi back to his flat before any well meaning inspectors could descend and demand he come home with them to be ‘looked after’. The last thing he wanted was to have Mrs Thursday set upon him, feeding him endless meals, and asking him all the questions he didn’t want to answer. 

It didn’t take long before he had a concerned DI calling him and demanding to know why he had left the hospital and not waited. He patiently explained that he was fine, he’d been treated, and he didn’t need supervision. Thursday didn’t sound convinced but eventually accepted it. Then he gave Morse a stern lecture that told him he certainly had read his file, and had come to the same conclusion as Bright. He made promises to not take on suspects on his own that he had no fear of breaking because they weren’t necessary in the first place. He hadn’t received one injury as a result of work from the day he had met Joseph. 

Morse sat in his kitchenette after the call ended and looked around hopelessly. He had next to nothing to call his own now. He had left all but his clothes and a few personal items in that awful flat. Two suitcases and one box. That was all the possessions he held now. He’d opened one and taken out clothes as he needed them. Unpacking was beyond him right now. He just couldn’t feel settled enough. Constantly on edge. Like he would need to run again at any time.

A knock at the door made him jump and sent his heart rate skittering. 

Once he had taken a few steadying breaths he crossed the room and looked through the spy-hole. He knew it wouldn’t be Joseph, couldn’t be, surely it couldn’t, but that didn’t stop him both fearing and hoping that it was.

Peter Jakes was the last person he expected to see at his door. Startled, he opened the door to his colleague. Jakes smiled and lifted a bag that looked like it contained a casserole dish in greeting.

“Evening! I figured you’d do a runner from the hospital and the Old Man so I thought I’d bring you some leftover stew.” 

As surprised as he had been before, now Morse was utterly flummoxed.

“What?”

“Isn’t ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’ a more normal response to a concerned colleague bringing you food?” Jakes asked with his usual cutting tone, but there was a warmth to it now, as though it were a joke between them, rather than aimed at him as an insult. When had that happened? When had they become something like friends?

“Sorry, yes, thank you. You didn’t have to though. I’d have been-”

“Fine?” Jakes finished his lie for him. “Sure you would. I bet you a pint you’ve got no real food in this place though.” Morse shuffled uncomfortably at that. “Come on, you going to let me in or what?”

“I was going to get something from the corner shop.” He said defensively, but stepped back to let the other man in.

Jakes moved into the flat and, upon finding there to be no doormat, deftly kicked off his shoes. He looked around and raised an eyebrow at Morse before making his way over to the kitchenette. He began opening and closing the empty cupboards while Morse stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“When did you move in?” he asked incredulously.

“Last week.” 

“No oven?” Morse shook his head. Jakes glanced at the unopened box and suitcase. “Do you have _anything_ in there to cook with?”

“There’s a saucepan in the sink. Its only had water for tea.” 

“Fair enough.” Jakes fished it out from where it lay in the sink with his lone mug and glass. Morse felt incredibly self-conscious about his lack of possessions suddenly. Jakes set the stew to warm on the hob. 

“I’d offer you tea, but...”

“No bother. Mind if I help myself to a glass of the scotch I noticed?”

“Help yourself.”

Jakes washed and dried the glass from the sink then poured himself a measure “Want a mugful?” He asked, offering up the tea-stained mug with a smirk.

“No, thank you.”

Jakes leant back against the sink. He didn’t comment on his refusal of alcohol, and for that Morse was even more grateful. Morse sat himself down at the small table and tried to think of what to say. Jakes was turning his glass around and around in his hands. He was staring at the suitcase that had been flung open, the contents spilling across the floor. It was odd to see Jakes like this; casually dressed, no shoes on, relaxed. Even more odd was that for the first time since he had fled his old home, Morse felt safe. The loneliness and fear kept at bay for a short while amidst the smell of real food warming and a friend in his kitchen.

“You _have_ left them, right?” Jakes spoke up suddenly.

“What?”

“The one that did this to you. You have left them? You’re safe?”

The questions caught him off guard. He felt his face betray him and turned his head to avoid looking at Jakes. There was a knowing look in Jakes’ expression. He knew. Of course he would know.

“I don’t know-”

“Of course you don’t. But I do. Look, I won’t pry. I’m not here to make things awkward. Its just… well, I know. I know what its like to be afraid long after you’re free of them. I know what its like to have to pretend. I know its not the same, but if you ever need to… to talk, or just… company. Whatever. I just wanted to let you know, I’m here.”

Morse wanted to keep pretending he didn’t know what Jakes meant but his heart wasn’t in it. He was actually glad someone knew. The silence, the secrets, the overwhelming solitude. It was all just so damn awful. He didn’t want to be pitied, didn’t want the endless questions, but that wasn’t what Jakes was offering. Was that how he felt about his past? In that moment he felt more connected to the other man than he had to anyone else in his life.

He managed a small ‘thank you’ in the midst of trying to keep the tears from his eyes. Jakes nodded and turned back to the now warm stew. He dug around in the drawers and, finding a cutlery set and nothing else, proceeded to set the hot pan on a placemat on the table and handed Morse a spoon. 

“Look, Morse… I won’t ask anything but this. What I asked before… you have left?” 

It was all too serious, so he made a joke of the situation. “You think I usually live like this?” Jakes gave a snort of laughter, but still raised an eyebrow in query. “Left in a hurry. Its all good. He won’t be following me here.” The instant he said it he coloured, realising his mistake. Jakes either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He didn’t find out which.

“OK, good. Well then. I ought to get going. I’ll come collect the casserole dish tomorrow. Give it a wash would you? Oh, and buy some plates and stuff for goodness sake.” 

Jakes left with a wave (no, surely it should be Peter now, given what they had talked about) leaving Morse feeling utterly confused about what had just happened. He’d been through a lot. Had thought coming back to Oxford to be a failing of sorts. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe leaving Oxford had been the failing, and this was coming home. 

Home to where he had the Thursdays looking out for him when he let them. Home to where he could sing in the choir. Home to where he had found that he had a true friend in someone he hadn’t even considered.

It would take some time to feel well again, to feel at one with himself. Maybe he never really would. But this was the place to do it, and these were the people he wanted around him while he made a new start again.

**Author's Note:**

> I have two follow ups planned out for this. If time permits then maybe you'll get to see them one day. Anyways, hope you liked this.


End file.
